


And I Love This View

by bar2d2s



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, Closeted Eddie Kaspbrack, Closeted Richie Tozier, M/M, but also canon has been stripped for parts and otherwise discarded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 06:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21157379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bar2d2s/pseuds/bar2d2s
Summary: Richie runs into someone he ought to know one day in New York City in 2014. Hindsight would later tell him that everything has an expiration date but for now, he’s just enjoying falling for someone. The deja vu hurts his head sometimes, but it’s alright. It’s alright.





	And I Love This View

“When I was fifteen, I thought I was gonna be in a band. Problem was, I couldn’t sing, play any instruments, and my taste in music was terrible.”

Richie hates telling this joke, because it’s based on something very real he’d mentioned one night over one too many in the writers room. 

He’d tried to learn the guitar back in high school, but he wasn’t really willing to put in the effort to get good enough to actually be able to write his own music. Didn’t help that the only guitar he’d been able to get his hands on was a piece of shit acoustic that felt like it was made of particle board and held together with dreams. He’d wanted to blame the sound on the guitar but the truth was, he just wasn’t any good.

“My best friend used to catch me practicing and honestly, it would have been less embarrassing if he’d walked in on me jerking it.” Another truth.

He vaguely remembers that the boy he liked had never had a single nice thing to say about his guitar skills, which was one of the reasons he gave it up. If he’d at least made jokes about how bad Richie was rather than just straight up criticizing him, maybe he’d have stuck with it.

“So I’m walking by this thrift store the other day and I see a guitar that looks just like the one I used to have, and it was only like twenty bucks so I bought it...and used it to make a  _ lovely _ beach bonfire. The musical inadequacy really made the s’mores pop.” Lie.

Lie lie lie.

The guitar was still in the back of his car. And he still sounds like shit, but who the fuck cares. Who’s really gonna make fun of him at this point? He’s got his little book of sheet music, picked up secondhand from a used book store, and he’s trying to relearn the way his hands are supposed to feel on the neck of the guitar. He picks at the strings with his fingernails until the first time he splits one trying to change key too fast, then he buys a pick.

Richie goes slow. Chooses slow songs. Only shames himself a little when he realizes that everything he’s playing is sad and lovelorn and pathetic. Resists the urge to go out and pick up an electric guitar so he can at least be sad in a cool way. Starts listening to indie kids on YouTube, and when did everyone get just as openly sad and gay as he was on the inside? 

Good for them, maybe if they get it out of the way now, they’ll end up living healthy, well-adjusted lives unashamed of who they are. He wishes them all the best, really. The brats.

He’s got a few gigs in New York City one day, toying with the idea of going and seeing a concert at a small club later, which he only knows about because he follows the artist on his secret unverified Twitter account that no one knows he has, when he hears. A voice.

“And I’m  _ telling _ you that I’ve been parked here for fifteen minutes, which is five minutes under the twenty minute limit, and I will fight any citation you give me because it is  _ two-thirty _ and I got here at  _ two-fifteen _ .”

Richie knows that voice. He knows that cadence, that siren song that calls him forward, to where the man a head and a half shorter than him is arguing with the meter reader. She looks ready to strangle him.

“It’s 2:45, dude.” The man turns to face him, the fire in his eyes splashed out in confusion when he actually sees who he’s talking to.

“Richie Tozier?”

The meter reader, funny enough, is a fan. She ends up being so flustered that she forgets to write the ticket, even though the short man was in the wrong. Once she’s gone though, instead of being grateful, he just seems mad.

_ Eddie is always mad about something _ , his brain helpfully supplies.  _ Bodies that small don’t have the room they need to really regulate rage, so it all just rises to the top. _

“Do I even know you?!” He spits, and the lack of recognition makes Richie feel brave.

“I mean, you could. Pretty easily.” He’s got three chart-topping comedy albums, two Netflix specials, and SNL keeps trying to get him on as a series regular. He’s got a shitty memory when it comes to anything before he moved to Boston back in high school, he’s been in the closet so long he’s practically shitting hangers, and yet he looks at this man and not only immediately  _ knows _ that he knows him, he knows that he is the most important person in this goddamn city. The state. The world. “I’m on TV a lot.”

The man makes a frustrated noise, throwing his hands up in the air. “I mean I  _ know _ who you  _ are _ , but I don’t  _ know _ you.” There’s a pause and then, in a much smaller voice he asks, “Do I?”

_ Have we met in the back of a club somewhere _ ? The tone of voice seems to ask.  _ Are you the secret I keep from my coworkers? _

“Is your name Eddie?” Richie asks, and the man jumps. Guess so.

“How did you know?!” He, Eddie, demands, fear magnified tenfold. “I’ve never even  _ met _ you!” But he’s looking at Richie’s hands, squinting at his arms beneath his jacket, trying to see if he can place them.

“Did you grow up in uh.” It always takes him a minute to remember where he came from. “Maine? Small town, kind of a farming area?” The dam breaks.

“Y-Yeah? I moved when I was a teenager but- wait, wait, did you go to...” And now Eddie is the one squinting, trying to remember. “Derry Township Middle School?”

“And elementary, and high school, baby.” Richie says casually, and Eddie flushes.

“Don’t call me- so then, I mean, we’ve probably met.”

More than that. Richie’s head hurts, because he  _ knows  _ he’s forgetting again, but he doesn’t want to forget. He remembers a quarry, a sewer, a kid bleeding from the stomach. So much blood, the only consistent thing his blurry childhood shows him.

“Well while we try and puzzle it out, wanna grab coffee?” Eddie shakes his head.

“I don’t, caffeine isn’t good for you.”

“A drink, then?” A laugh.

“It’s three in the afternoon!”

“Fine, you can just come back to my hotel.”

A pause.

Twenty minutes later, they’re spilling into his (stupidly nice, so much nicer than the shitty motels he stayed in on the road for the first five years of his career) hotel room. Eddie has his hands in his hair and Richie almost laughs when he remembers that the only reason he’d gone out this afternoon at all was to get a haircut. Maybe tomorrow.

“Are you married?” He asks, gasping as they pull apart for the first time since the elevator. Because he hadn’t noticed it before, but something hard kept scraping against his scalp and when Richie looks at Eddie’s left hand...yeah, that’s a ring.

“Is that a problem?” Eddie asks, demands, but he’s nervous again. Like he’s never had to field this question before, because he usually remembers to pocket the goddamn ring before jumping into the arms of another man. But really, it sort of is. He’s a fucking celebrity, last thing he needs is to be outed by some cuckolded wife.

_ Do you really think he’s gonna want to see you again, after he gets what he wants? _

“Nah.” Richie replies, shrugging. Lies lies lies. “In fact, it’s pretty good insurance. Maybe I should get one of those.” Eddie snorts, shoves him forward with shockingly strong arms and, completely caught off guard, Richie finds himself falling backwards onto the bed.

“Don’t.” Eddie tells him, too honest for a moment, not explaining any further. And then Richie is too focused on the way Eddie is shrugging out of his suit jacket to bother asking any more questions.

They do end up getting dinner before his show, at the restaurant attached to the hotel. For the first time in a while, Richie doesn’t have a drink with his meal.

“You have to admit, it’s kind of weird we ran into each other.” Eddie is saying, and Richie watches in fascination as he pulls out one of those fancy pill sorters from his pocket, opens the little compartment that says DINNER. A long-buried memory is trying to worm its way to the surface, something having to do with one of those old calculator watches with the annoying timer on it. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve met another person from Derry since I was seventeen.”

_ How would you even know? _ Richie wants to ask. Doesn’t. “Hey, do you wanna come to my show? It’s sold out, but I could probably get you in. If you want.” Eddie has a funny look on his face, like he  _ wants _ to say no, but also like he doesn’t actually want to leave Richie’s side just yet. Richie remembers biking along a quaint little street full of moderate to nice two-story houses, an arm in a cast slung across his stomach. He remembers being giddy, the way you can only be as a kid with their first real crush. He feels that way now.

Eddie ends up saying yes, and Richie literally sneaks him in the side door, sits him right up front.

"Everyone's been asking me about Twitter, these days. Like, oh, Richie, don't you have a Twitter? Everyone is on Twitter, why aren't you? Listen, asshole, I've been on Twitter since 2008. I follow six people, my icon is Cheetara from Thundercats and I am  _ not _ changing my shit for  _ anyone _ ." The original line had been ‘and my icon is Optimus Prime from Transformers’, but for some reason, Cheetara had felt like a better fit tonight. The audience still laughs and, to his pleasure, so does Eddie. “Really though, I love social media. You get to reconnect with people you forgot about twenty years ago, and see how much better the kids you went to middle school with look than you now.” Another script divergence. If Richie looked to the side, he could probably see his manager having a coronary.  _ Stick to the script, Trashmouth. _

He stops changing lines after that, gets a standing ovation when he’s done, and it doesn’t feel as hollow as it usually does. Eddie has to leave not long after, but his exit comes with a searing kiss backstage and his phone number so all in all, not the biggest loss.

Richie is in New York twice, sometimes three times a month. It’s the fifth trip since he met Eddie again when he realizes that hasn’t been back to any of his usual hookup spots in ages. And it’s not just because Eddie is a sure thing who happens to be be exactly his type. He panics, decides not to call Eddie this time around. That resolve lasts all of two hours after his plane touches down.

“Didn’t even know you were gonna be in town this week.” Eddie mumbles into his neck, and Richie almost wants to tell him not to leave marks but really, fuck it. That’s what makeup was for.

“I’m hosting SNL again, wanna come to the taping?”

Because he and Eddie, they don’t just fuck.

Whenever Richie is in town, they do other things. Get dinner, see movies, go bowling. Richie got them tickets for plays and musicals Eddie wanted to see, and one time he nervously took Eddie to a hole in the wall coffee house where they hid in the back, watching a girl with a guitar sing about how much she loved her girlfriend, and how much it killed her to hide her from her friends and family. Eddie looks at him a different kind of way after that, like he maybe understands why Richie keeps sending him weird YouTube links at four in the morning. When it’s midnight in California and Richie is sitting up in bed alone, missing the shape Eddie’s body makes in the sheets next to him.

They’d been sleeping together for maybe five months the first time Richie floats out the idea of Eddie coming to see him in California. It’s also the first time they really get in a fight.

“Are you kidding me?!” Eddie squawks, sitting up. His collarbones are dotted in little mouth-shaped bruises because his wife is out of the state for once, visiting family, and he insisted that Richie really go crazy. “What the fuck would I say I’d be doing in  _ California _ ?” 

“I don’t  _ know _ !” Richie groaned, throwing his hands up. Why had he thought this was a good idea? “Construction literally never stops out there, say you’re inspecting a site for potential hazards or something!”

“I can’t, I can’t just blatantly lie to my wife like that.” Eddie says weakly, and Richie snaps.

“Oh wow, I had no idea she knew you were fucking me on the regular, then.” He replies sarcastically, flopping onto his back, not looking at Eddie. “That must be so great, having a wife that’s cool with you cheating on her. You think she’d wanna come to one of my shows? I have some great new material about how much fun it is to only fuck guys deeper in the closet than I am, she’d love it.”

Eddie doesn’t even bother replying to him, just gets out of bed and leaves. Richie goes down to the hotel bar and drinks until he can’t properly stand anymore, certain he’d fucked up the only truly good thing he’d ever had.

That night he dreams about a clown, and wakes up screaming. He has fifteen missed texts from Eddie, three calls, and someone is trying to DM his secret Twitter account. It’s almost six am, but he calls Eddie back anyway.

“I can’t. I can’t go to California.” Eddie says, and he sounds exhausted. He sounds like he’s been crying, and all Richie wants is to go to him, to find him. To walk into his nice house full of his nice stuff and all the memories and mementos of him and his  _ wife _ and just. Ruin it all. Steal him away like a thief in the very early morning. “What the fuck are we even  _ doing _ , Richie?” His heart pangs in his chest, and Richie decides to go for broke.

“I want to be with you.” He sounds desperate and he knows it, tone begging Eddie to stay on the line. “Here. California. Fucking  _ Maine _ I don’t care. I just want to keep being with you, as long as you still want me.”  _ Please _ , he thinks,  _ never stop wanting me. _

“I can’t go to California.” Eddie says again, but he’s calmer now, his voice less choked-up.

“Then I won’t ask you again, babe.”

Eddie comes to California anyway, fifteen months after they meet.

It’s a complete surprise when he shows up at one of his smaller gigs, and Richie literally shoves his agent aside to get to him. “Shut the fuck up, my boyfriend’s here!” He snarls when the other man complains, his face shoved into the top of Eddie’s head. “And I don’t go on for five minutes, let me have this.”

His words, his statement,  _ boyfriend _ . It shakes something loose in Eddie and later, after the show, in Richie’s fucking  _ bedroom _ in his pigsty of a condo that overlooks the fucking  _ beach _ , Eddie can’t keep his hands off of him.

“Did you really mean that?” He keeps gasping, eyes laser-focused and intense. “About me?” Richie scoffs, trying and failing to be casual.

“You’re the only person I’ve been with for almost two years, Eds. If you’re not my boyfriend, then I’ve been wasting a lot of time not fucking other people while I’m on the road.”  _ Also, I’m in love with you, _ he doesn’t say.  _ Also, I want to spend the rest of my life with you watching Netflix and eating takeout and listening to you complain about the morons in the antivax movement and telling me how I’m gonna get diabetes if I don’t stop using flavored coffee creamer. _ “Face it pumpkin, you’re stuck with me.”

Eddie sleeps naked after, and when the setting sun through the window highlights the dips and curves on his ridiculously fit body, it takes everything Richie has not to break their no pictures rule and capture this moment in a way his stupid broken memory can’t ruin.

Richie cancels his next two gigs and spends the week pretending like this is just his forever-life; shopping for groceries with Eddie, sneakily attending local shows together, hanging out on the beach while Eddie coats himself in sun screen and begs Richie to do the same, because what if that mole is actually a melanoma. Being in love is agonizing, he decides. But also totally worth it, because Eddie has put his book down, is scooting over on their huge towel to lay with his cheek on Richie’s chest. Amazingly, no one recognizes Richie with his contacts in, so they’re just another couple here. The freedom is exhilarating.

“I’ll call you when I get back to New York.” Eddie promises him at the airport and god, Richie wants to kiss him, beg him to stay. He’s not even calling New York  _ home _ anymore. But he lets him go and just before the plane lifts off, he gets a text.

Eddie had taken pictures of them at the beach, while he hadn’t been paying attention. A selfie of them in bed, him snoring away with Eddie tucked up under his chin. There was even a picture of Richie on stage, somehow not looking like a sweaty, awkward mess. Maybe there was a filter on it.

_ Save these for me, _ Eddie was asking him, because he couldn’t have evidence like this on his phone. Proof that he wasn’t faithful to his wife.

Richie wondered how long it would take before he could convince Eddie to leave her for good.

The phone rang just before his show that night, but it wasn’t Eddie.

“Richie? This is Mike Hanlon. From Derry.”

Memories came flooding back. Of bullies and swimming nearly naked in a quarry with the best friends he’d ever had. Street Fighter. Biking down the hill on Main Street like the devil was behind him, a sweet voice screaming in his ear that they were going to crash and die.

_ Eddie. _

An overbearing mother that never wanted him to come around and play. Lending that shrimpy Kaspbrack kid his crayons at recess, because he couldn’t run around with his asthma. The sewer. Grey water.

_ Do you want one from me, Mrs. K? _

It had always been-

The hammock. The clubhouse. Eddie climbing in his window the night before he and his mom moved to Boston once the divorce was finalized, tears dripping off his chin and onto Richie’s t-shirt, the one Richie had slipped over his head as a goodbye present. R + E.

_ How did I forget? _

It had always been Eddie. Always. Since he was eleven years old and suddenly, Eddie falling asleep on him during movie nights at Bill’s felt like the most forbidden thing in the world.

There was something else. A danger. Something that they needed to do, that was drawing him back. Something they needed to stop.

_ What are you scared of, Richie? _

Being found out. Being known. Having Eddie look at him and see something dirty and wrong and awful, having all his friends leave him because there was something fundamentally  _ off _ about him.

_ Clowns. _

Richie rushed out of the venue, making it through the back door just before he threw up.


End file.
